


Waste Paper

by EvilMuffins



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilMuffins/pseuds/EvilMuffins
Summary: Not only content with being a terrible shot, Saihara Shuuichi also fancied himself as something of a master when it came to the art of utter failure in communication with his fellow human beings.In one decisive stroke, Saihara completed the message he had originally meant to discard:‘I want to talk’-----Saihara gains a mysterious new penpal, who may or may not be the Mastermind.
Relationships: Ouma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 109





	Waste Paper

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the saiou zine!

_“Better stick with the detective work, kiddo!”_

His uncle would crack a smirk as he glanced over at Saihara’s desk, spying the small mountain of crumpled paper littering the surrounding area everywhere _but_ the office trash bin.

“ _Because you’re certainly not going to make it on the basketball court anytime soon!_ ”

As if taking revenge for its fallen comrades, the neon yellow paper sliced across Saihara’s finger just as he began to crumple it. With a defeated sigh, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes before they could catch sight of the ceiling that most certainly did not belong to the cozy spare room he had occupied in his uncle’s house mere days earlier. 

_Who are you?_

_What do you want from us?_

_What is ‘Horse A’?_

It had been days since the cryptic scribble had been discovered out in the grass--so much had transpired--and yet the message continued to nag at Saihara. Once a mystery fell into his lap, there was no putting it out of his mind, despite his attempts to convince himself of the fact that there were much more dire considerations at the moment. 

Shifting upright, Saihara stuck the crumpled post-it note to the top of his desk, attempting to smooth it out as best he could. Even if he had attempted to toss it, it wouldn’t have made the can anyway.

Not only content with being a terrible shot, Saihara Shuuichi also fancied himself as something of a master when it came to the art of utter failure in communication with his fellow human beings. Even short memos left for his uncle had at times been a struggle. Picking the right words was stress-inducing on a good day, but one wrong move here could throw everyone into danger. While the ‘Horse A’ message could have been left by whoever had previously attended the school before the arrival of the current student body, there was also a very strong possibility that it had been left for them to discover by the Mastermind. 

In one decisive stroke, Saihara completed the message he had originally meant to discard: 

_‘I want to talk.'_

Saihara was thankful for the lack of rain underneath the dome. Unless it was disturbed by one of the other students, his note would remain stuck to the stone, awaiting a response unlikely to ever appear. 

* * *

No one would miss him if Saihara took a short detour on the way to breakfast. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if anyone would come looking for him if he failed to show up entirely. 

Putting any expectations aside, Saihara approached the stone.  
The note had vanished.

Sweat prickling at his palms, the possibility of one of the other students having picked it up immediately ran through his mind. It was completely possible that Gonta had come back and taken it to bring up during breakfast. There was nothing at all implausible about that scenario. And yet, the same little voice in the back of Saihara’s head that sometimes whispered to him about a clue to be discovered--or a deadend to avoid--knew very well that the intended recipient had come across it. 

So that was it. Whoever it was likely would refuse to communicate until he solved the code scratched into the rock. Unfortunately, Saihara still had not even the most basic inkling of what ‘horse a’ could possibly refer to. 

Already resigned to another sleepless night even before breakfast, Saihara made his way toward the dining hall. 

‘ _Chatty are we?’_

A small, bright yellow square was stuck to the dining hall’s outer entrance. A sticky note. Saihara peeled it off the door, flipping it over as if the back side would contain anything other than a line of tacky glue. 

He didn’t know what he had expected, really. That the mastermind--if that were truly who he was speaking to--would suddenly confess their identity, freely spilling all of their secrets? Saihara knew that he should feel lucky to even have gotten the simple one-line reply in return at all. 

Skipping breakfast, Saihara spent the entirety of his morning hunched over the desk in his room. 

_‘What’s your favorite kind of icecream?’_

It was a ridiculous question, nothing short of childish, and yet it was the first and most innocuous thing he could think to ask. Anything too personal or direct could run the risk of driving his mysterious new penpal away. 

Now, of course, the question arose of just where to leave it. Anywhere too obvious, and one of the other students would discover it. If this person truly were the mastermind, surely they would notice if something were out of place. 

That night, one book downstairs in the library was left pulled slightly outward compared to its neighbors on the shelf. 

* * *

A scrap of paper floating in the pool, a single word scribbled on the boys’ room mirror in lipstick, a stack of blank papers on a warehouse shelf concealing a single printed sheet. 

Each question and subsequent answer were nothing short of small talk, yet the daily hunt for each fresh note proved a welcome distraction that Saihara found far more agreeable than solving the murder of Ryoma Hoshi hours prior. 

The mastermind was _funny._ They were charming and lively in a way that Saihara could only hope to be. 

Each night, as Saihara would stow the newest note away in his desk drawer just before bed, he couldn’t help but feel a smile brighten his weary face. 

* * *

Ouma Kokichi was the mastermind.

Saihara's innards roiled, heart and mind alike melding into a molten ball made up of equal parts realization, disbelief, and the horrible notion that he should have known all along. During the entirety of their free moments spent together, Saihara had always thought that Ouma's constant torrent of lies were nothing more than mere mischievousness, a playfulness that he had to admit to having grown more than a little fond of.

How much of it had been a lie, then? Each and every note between them—the very same ones that had lifted his spirits following every new horror bestowed upon the group—was now cast into doubt.

While Saihara had carried little doubt in his mind that he had been conversing with the mastermind the entire time, the fact their true identity had been Ouma suddenly rocketed even the most inane sliver of information onto a planet of doubt.

' _My favorite flavor is black sesame, of course!'_

_'Eh, I'm more of a dog person, really. If the choice wasn't only between the two, I'd actually have to go with a horse, of course!'_

Generally, whenever Saihara's legs took up a notion to transform into a pair of limp noodles, he would sink himself into the nearest chair, couch, bed, etc. and stay there until he moped for long enough that the feeling finally meandered its way back to his extremities.

He had to find him. 

Mastermind or not, after Ouma’s theatrical reveal, there was no way that Saihara could leave him to his own devices somewhere alone in the school. 

_Think. Just think_ , Saihara reminded himself, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm the pounding in his chest. Not a day had gone by in which Saihara had failed to discover the whereabouts of Ouma’s latest letter. Where would he have searched for the next note? Perhaps it was due to all the time he had spent in the school’s casino, but Saihara would have been willing to lay down a bet that he would find Ouma if he could just reason it out. 

_The casino._

* * *

“Ah, my beloved Shumai,” Ouma said cheerfully, as if nothing had ever happened. He didn’t even bother to turn around, instead still diligently operating the steering wheel of the driving game. Somehow, Saihara didn’t think that you were _supposed_ to hit the pedestrians. 

“You…” for someone who rarely knew what to say, suddenly a flood of words all rushed forth at once, piling up one against the other like children eager to be the first to enter the house of mirrors that was the mind of Ouma Kokichi. 

Instead, Saihara marched over to the neighboring game cabinet, sliding shakily into the seat and grabbing the wheel until his knuckles turned white. 

“You really sure you have time to be playing games right now?” Ouma asked curiously, cocking his head as he spared a glance beside him. 

“If I win…” Saihara swallowed, the words pouring out like coffee over his tongue, bitter yet energizing in a way that made him jitter. “If I win, I want you to tell me if any of it was true.”

“You mean like how I’m the mastermind and shit?” 

“I mean the letters!” Saihara leapt up from the game, digging into his pockets and pulling out two handfuls of paper, which he let go, fluttering to the ground.

A ‘game over’ flashed across Ouma’s screen. Finally, he turned to face Saihara, eyes wide and innocent. “Oh yeah. You caught me, Saihara-chan! I really do have a wicked pollen allergy, just like I wrote about!”

“You know which one I’m talking about.” One letter remained crumpled in Saihara’s fist. 

‘ _I think I’m really starting to like you! Maybe even love!'_

“That was a lie,” he stated plainly.

Saihara fought the sinking in his heart. He knew deep down in his heart not to take anything Ouma said for face value. “So you really do... _like_ me.”

For a brief second, a flash of terror sparked on Ouma's face, and Saihara feared that he would run like always.

So he did the only thing that he could think to do.

Ouma was warm in his arms. Soft, and alive, and _human._ “I don't think you're really the mastermind,” Saihara said into Ouma's hair, “And even if you were... I think that I might still feel the same.”


End file.
